Tim's Tales - The Crusoe of Cockenzie

His dress indicated he must be from some far away place. He wore a hat of French style and a long coat. His face was clean-shaven and bronze, a complexion that suggested he must be from a warmer climate.

As he strolled into the village he studied the houses carefully. He paused at certain places, sometimes retracing his steps, and staring as if re-living or refreshing memories.

The progress of this exotic-looking stranger was followed quietly by the eyes of the women. Most of the men were away at the fishing, so the street was dominated by bairns and their mothers.

He then entered a small shop and asked the keeper if a person called Alexander Barbour still lived in the village. He spoke with a local accent mixed with another less identifiable one.

“Aye, that’s his hoose ower there,” said the shop keeper.

The man now walked with determined purpose to the house, as if he was excited and had found what he had been looking for. He stood for a moment, nervous, on the doorstep, then knocked on the door.

A woman answered.

“Does Alexander Barbour bide here?” asked the stranger. The woman studied the man, squinted her eyes and slightly turned her head as she cautiously replied.

“Aye, but he’s awa at the fishin the noo.” The man hesitated, as if he had been surprised by the woman’s answer. He seemed upset, and stepped away for a moment to compose himself. Then he asked: “Are ye his wife?” “Aye, I am,” she replied.

Her answer had an immediate effect on the man. He seemed overtaken with emotion, lent against the doorway and looked down, speaking to himself rather than her: “Then, my mother is deid.” Without asking he entered the house, still distressed. He walked through the house, picking up items, looking at them and the inside of the house, as if he had been there before. Then, with tears in his eyes, he sat down.

The woman began to realise who this man may be. She approached him, this time with sympathy.

“Are you...” she asked, with breathless anticipation, “... are you Jackie Barbour?” The man looked up at her.

“Aye, I am,” he said.

“The Lord be praised!” she cried out and her legs were suddenly electrified. She rushed out of the house and into a one nearby.

“Yer brother’s returned,” she screamed with joy to her husband’s daughter, “he’s in the hoose!” The sister said nothing, but dropped everything and ran into her father’s house, and without hesitating hugged the man like a limpit, sobbing.

“I kent ye’d come back, I kent it!” she kept on saying.

The step-mother left the two siblings talking and took the opportunity to leave the house to inform the village. Already some neighbours had heard the commotion and had gathered close-by to find out what was going on.

The step mum ran through the village announcing the news that Jackie Barbour had returned! In moments there were waves of women holding babies heading for the Barbour household, followed by a tide of bairns who wondered what the exciting news was all about and wanted to see for themselves.

The house was mobbed. Some older members of the community shook Jackie’s hand, others hugged him. The children had no idea who he was but some shook his hand anyway. The whole village was buzzing with the news of Jackie Barbour’s return.

Later, Jackie was reunited with his father and brother and thanks were given at a prayer meeting that Sabbath.

And once the excitement and novelty of his return had died down, his story began to emerge.

He had left the village 16 years ago on a ship bound for Australia, but then he had vanished. His family were distraught at the lack of news. His mother had died believing her youngest son was dead.

Only Jackie’s sister, who was married to a sailor, had kept the flame of hope alive. She had always believed he was still alive and would one day return.

Now he had returned, much changed. What was his story, where had he been in those 16 years? You can imagine the excited silence as Jackie told his tale to his family: “I wasnae happy wi ma berth sae I jumped ship. I found myself on a whaler heading for the Pacific. We had the sun richt above us, so we must’ve been by the equator.

“The one nicht as maist o’ us were sleeping there wis this almichty crunch. We’d hit rocks. But the waves tossed the ship like a cat playin wi a mouse, and she began tae disintegrate.

“I scrambled oot in the darkness, alang wi other crew members. We couldnae see much but could make oot a beach.

“When we got there we just fell doon exhausted. We waited till sunrise in the hope o’ salvaging something but the hale ship was already gone! We’d been wrecked oan a headland, wi a raging tide that’d swept everything awa.

“There were 25 of us, with nothing but the ragged claes we were wearing.

“So we decided tae find oot where we were. We reckoned we were oan one of the Fiji islands, but we didnae ken exactly. We explored the island. There were muckle cliffs in the west but a mair kindly shoreline in the east. Thick forest surrounded it but strangely there were clearings in the middle o’ the island, which we calculated as aboot 10 miles in circumference. And, in the middle, there was a smoking mountain, a volcano.” Jackie paused in the telling of his tale, and one fascinated listener took the opportunity to ask a question: “What did ye eat?” “Weel,” said Jackie, continuing his tale, “there were many fruit trees, including pineapple, and we found yams under the ground. There were also fruits we didnae ken the name o’. But there werenae many animals and a diet of fruit soon made us sick. We realised we had tae catch fish.

“Since I am the son o’ a fisherman the duty wis given tae me, but it wasnae easy without gear. But then we saw something that at first made us feart.” “What? What was that?” asked a spellbound listener.

“The island was inhabited,” continued Jackie. “There were aboot 600 o’ them, and they caught their fish wi simple spears. We did the same.

“But we had nothing tae dae with them. They were a godless race, wearing nae claes, and talking tae the trees.

“But there was also a respect atween us. They sometimes gave us gifts o’ fish. They showed us how tae cook the yams in the embers o’ the volcano. We would cook the fish likewise.

“But the worst o’ it was the boredom. We hadnae even a Bible tae read. Sae we telt each ither stories. We got tae ken each ither’s lives as if they were oor ain. But death was ay in the shadows. We started dying. After some time there were only 13 o’ us, with 12 graves reminding us that we were once 25.

“We spent hours looking at the horizon for rescue. We were going crazy. There were fechts, and worse. We wore oor ragged claes not because we had tae but tae show we still had Godly civility within us despite oor desperate condition.

“I can tell ye I prayed every day, I dreamt o’ Cokenny and the cool lapping shore, the sound o’ women and bairns and the feeling o’ bein at hame. I felt sure I wouldnae ever see Cokenny agin, that my grave would also be oan that God forsaken island and that my family would never ken where I rested.

“Years passed but we couldnae tell how many years we had spent stranded oan the island. I felt my body failing, and I was close tae death when I heard the screaming: ‘A ship, a ship, we are delivered, praise be to God!’ I wasnae sure if I was dreaming it, and I fell intae a slumber.

“Then I awoke aboard a schooner called the ‘Irish Girl’. We were already at sea headed for California. I can tell ye I cannae say in words the joy I felt. My body came back tae me, my strength and my spirit returned, and I had just one desire, tae be back in Cokenny wi my family.

“I discovered we had spent nine years oan that island, yet it felt like 50. It took me near two years working in California to raise enough funds tae begin my journey hame, but...” Jackie’s voice broke with emotion for a moment, “but noo I’m hame.” The following year, Jackie’s tale was reported in the Haddingtonshire Courier, in 1863. The island on which Jackie and his crewmates had been stranded was, it said, Cocoa Nut Island, one of the Fiji group.

The tale was again re-printed 50 years later and named ‘A Cockenzie Robinson Crusoe’. A copy of this was kindly given to me by Helen Bleck of the John Gray Centre (at least I think it was her!).

Of course the tale is surely fanciful. It is indeed a story heavily influenced by images of Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe. The tale of surviving on such an island for nine years seems highly improbable.

Yet do we have a tale here with its origins rooted in reality, just as Defoe’s novel was? Was there really a Jackie Barbour from Cockenzie who left for sea in 1846, and returned 16 years later with a tale of shipwreck and survival?

Maybe he’d visited the Fiji islands, perhaps he was describing places he’d seen, but elaborated the tale for good effect. Or perhaps the tale was elaborated in the re-telling? Maybe some current residents of Cockenzie will know the story?

I for one am happy to leave it at that. Whatever the truth, it’s a great tale, and it has made me want to find out if this Cocoa Nut Island exists or what its real name might be! But it raises interesting issues about oral history. Our own tales can get lost or reworked if we don’t record them, just as Alexander Selkirk discovered!

So if you have tales from your life to share why not go to Helen’s forthcoming event ‘My village my town’ on Tuesday, May 20, and share your memories of your community and your life?

There will also be special oral history sessions to share your stories in the Star Room of the John Gray Centre in Haddington on September 10 and 17.

Give her a ring for more details on 01620 820 610 or email history@eastlothian.gov.uk